A laid-back Mexican beach town may be the best-kept secret in the sport

There were barely a dozen other players on the field, but I was still riding scared at La Patrona, a palm-shrouded polo club in the tiny Mexican hamlet of San Pancho.

As my fellow riders expertly maneuvered their horses among the goal posts and one another, I found myself resisting when my instructor, Raul, implored me to follow through with my swing. I was terrified of accidentally whacking my horse—or myself—with my mallet. The proximity of the other animals put me even more on edge. Horses kick and hiss, crash and bash into each other on the field. More familiar with single-file rides from summer camp, I was convinced a polo pile-up was inevitable.

Photos: Around San Pancho

Polo players head to the field. Brown W Cannon III for The Wall Street Journal

"Tranquilo," Ivan Echeverria, the club's founder, reassured me later that day. "Remember, horses run in herds in the wild, so there is nothing unnatural for them about the polo dynamic."

There isn't much unnatural about San Pancho's dynamic, either.

Blissfully authentic, the town (whose official name is San Francisco) has mercifully avoided the cruise ship crowds and cookie-cutter condos that curse Puerto Vallarta, just an hour south. Former Mexican President Luis Echeverria—unrelated to Ivan—"discovered" San Pancho in the 1970s, when it was little more than wide swaths of barren, jungle-backed Pacific beaches. He embarked on a modernization plan, leaving the village with paved roads, a modern hospital and Villa Vista Magica, a Bond-worthy hideaway atop a secluded hillside.

Today, San Pancho remains more funky than fancy, with one ATM and zero traffic lights—no easy feat considering that Nayarit, one of Mexico's smallest states, is intent on a billion dollar master-plan to transform its verdant coast into a lower-density version of Cancun or Los Cabos.

Despite its almost Lilliputian size, San Pancho offers plenty to do—surfing, jungle hikes, multiple yoga studios. And of course, there's the polo.

ENLARGE

Evening entertainment following the match
Photographs by Brown Cannon III for The Wall Street Journal

Ivan Echevarria, a Mexico City-born riding champ, fell for the coast in the mid-1990s, settled near San Pancho and opened a riding field that became La Patrona Polo Club. Originally a private spot for Mr. Echevarria and his pals to play, La Patrona now welcomes polo-philes at every level, including increasing numbers of first-timers from around the world, who are drawn by the club's lack of pretension. Unlike Careyes, the posh riding resort three hours south, San Pancho is a destination with polo, rather than a polo destination. Free of Careyes' villa culture and European clientele, San Pancho's polo is also a whole lot cheaper.

I came to San Pancho for my first taste of polo—three days of introductory lessons, the minimum needed to acquire basic playing skills. La Patrona's playing season runs from November through May, but in January the club, like the rest of San Pancho, was practically Gringo-free. So I trained solo with Raul, my regal, mustached instructor, who on day one greeted me with a hearty "hola" and a nod to follow him through the stables.

There are 41 horses at La Patrona, many raised there since birth, and I was eager to mount one. Raul led me instead to a large wire-mesh cage and sat me atop a life-sized wooden horse for an hour of polo basics.

ENLARGE

The crowd applauds as a match ends.
Brown W Cannon III for The Wall Street Journal

He taught me how to hold the reins (in the left hand) and the mallet (in your right, even if left-handed). To my surprise, balancing on the horse was a challenge without the "horn" of a Western saddle, and even from a wooden perch, I wasn't able to make mallet meet ball. But slowly I found my center of gravity, and soon I was connecting and my swings—forward, back and half-way—had the ball ricocheting through the enclosure.

Having deemed me horse-worthy, Raul led me onto the field. My helmet fastened tight, I started to imagine myself the next Nacho Figueras. A chestnut-maned stallion named Cactus was saddled up and ready to ride. As I mounted Cactus, Raul appeared atop his own white mare— handsome in crisp white jeans, green polo shirt and leather breeches.

La Patrona provides basic gear for visitors—helmets and breeches. While I'd been presented with a perfect excuse for raiding my local Ralph Lauren, my polo shirt was from The Gap, and I wore cargo pants from Banana Republic. In this low-key setting, it didn't matter. With Raul alongside me, we strode around the polo field working our way up from a trot to a gallop.

THE LOWDOWN

Getting There: San Pancho is an hour by car north of Puerto Vallarta, which is served by most major commercial airline carriers.

Playing There: La Patrona offers lessons from $80 an hour. Practices are Tuesday and Thursdays; formal matches take place twice nightly on Saturdays. polovallarta.com

I still was too green to ride while swinging a mallet or hitting a ball. Rather, Raul showed me how to handle Cactus: Kicking his flanks to move him forward, leaning into him to determine his direction. Right and left turns proved a cinch; reversals and 360-degree swirls, not so much. It was a delicate balance between force and finesse, performed while avoiding a crash with our fellow players. (Many were American, like young Elliott from California or Pat, a 70-something Oregonian, both of whom were in San Pancho for the winter. The Mexicans—perhaps wisely—generally practiced on weekends.)

Ninety minutes after my arrival we were done. Raul helped me dismount and I was told to return the next day—same time, same place, same horse. I was exhausted, but adrenaline-fueled. I used the following 22 hours to explore San Pancho, Mexican village life at its slow-paced best.

San Pancho radiates from a single central calle packed with tiny restaurants, surf shacks and low-cost B&Bs. There's English in the air, but despite the visiting Americans and Canadians (and their hidden cliff-top villas) San Pancho remains dominated by the locals, with their late-night soccer games, dense residential districts and produce-packed trucks selling their wares.

I ate shrimp ceviche and fish tacos for lunch at tiny Baja Takeria; had an early evening stroll along San Pancho's wide beach as surfers caught waves and humpback whales surfaced in the distance; and sipped a morning soy latte at boho Cafe Arte. I took it easy, as I'd been instructed that polo requires maximum alertness.

The next afternoon I found out why. After a few refresher swings on the wooden horse and a warm-up ride on Cactus, Raul handed me a mallet and told me it was time to play ball—or at least to try and hit one. Trotting in front, alongside, to my rear, Raul would pass me the ball, and I attempted to whack it with the mallet as I rode between one goal post and the other.

Unlike my ride on the wooden horse, real-life polo is complex, difficult and downright scary. Reins in one hand, five-foot-long mallet in the other, you must somehow hit a 3.5-inch ball while balancing on a beast that is galloping across an open field, dodging opponents all the way. It was a polo field scrimmage, and I performed dismally.

What to Wear There: Coastal Equestrian

F. Martin Ramin for The Wall Street Journal, Styling by Anne Cardenas

Blend tropical with sporty for a weekend riding horses and waves

I tried to embrace my third and final day in the saddle, armed with Mr. Echeverria's advice about polo feeling natural for horses. I was determined to score a goal. Cactus seemed in a particularly cooperative mood, and Raul was ready to rev up my handicap. He got things going with a few easy putts and soon I was hitting the ball forward—first once, then twice and finally from one side of the field to the other.

Actual goals proved far more elusive—but I was only getting warmed up. I dug my heels deep into Cactus and maneuvered my mallet with astonishing dexterity. "Follow through!" Raul implored repeatedly as I whacked the ball closer and closer to the goal posts, Cactus moving at a healthy trot. Trading fear for focus, I finally did it: A forceful "follow through" and the ball crossed the finish line.

I scored five points that day against Raul—though it's certain he went easy on me. He certainly seemed far more formidable while competing for La Patrona later that evening. With barely a week of lessons under my saddle, I was clearly too new to play with the team. But had I stuck around for a few more weeks, well, let's just say I would have qualified for a beginners' match or two.

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